


The Fair Prince

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [12]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, just dads being dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28048269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: In Himring, Ereinion learns a few important life skills, like dressing the spoils of hunting, pilfering honey cakes, and cursing the Enemy.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 11
Kudos: 70





	The Fair Prince

**Author's Note:**

> For three (3) requests of more Fingon and Maedhros with little Gil-Galad, I am genuinely only too happy to provide. Requests still open!

_Himring, 395 F.A._

Ereinion looked dubiously at the animal on the table, then up at Maedhros. “You want me to skin it myself?”

“You shot it,” Maedhros pointed out mildly. “You should be eager to complete the process.”

“But...”

“Have you something else to do tonight?”

Ereinion frowned, and did not meet his eyes. “I’ve never done it before,” he admitted. “In Dor-Lómin, it’s the servants who dress the deer.”

“No doubt,” Maedhros agreed. “But you are not in Dor-Lómin. And in Himring, he who shoots the deer has the _honor_ of dressing and skinning it.”

“You shot the other one. Are you going to dress that one?”

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. A second later, Ereinion flushed bright red, his hands darting down to the stump where his right hand used to be. “I...I didn’t mean--“

Maedhros pulled his hunting knife from his belt, and flicked it around in his left hand, resting his stump against the deer’s belly before opening it, careful not to puncture any of the intestines. He quickly cut them free, tugging and sweeping them into a large metal tub, then flicked the knife twice around the front legs, then through the joints.

The rest of it took only a few minutes, before he was hoisting the heavy animal one-handed onto the gambrels. “I don’t expect you to do it so quickly,” he said, and pulled out a utilitarian prosthetic, one with a flat clamp on the end that he manipulated with the left hand, gripping the edge of the pelt as he cut with the knife in his left hand. “It’s your first time, after all.”

Stung, Ereinion pulled out the knife tucked into his own belt. It was far smaller, sized to his stature; at twenty-five, he hardly came up to Maedhros’s chest, but was strong for all that. “I can do it,” he muttered, and set about butchering his own kill, a fine young buck.

“Careful. Keep it shallow. It--here,” Maedhros said, his hand closing over Ereinion’s, guiding his knife. “Pressure, but not force. This angle, you feel it?”

“It smells awful,” Ereinion muttered, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t even like meat that much.”

Maedhros smiled, and guided him through the motions, hand on his. “Your father does. If you finish this, I’ll tell him how good at it you were, and we can go pilfer some honeycakes from the pantry while it’s roasting, hm?”

The child’s eyes lit up, and he bent to the task with renewed vigor. He couldn’t reach the hooks, and couldn’t quite force the knife to bite through the joints, and needed help with the skinning, but otherwise made a credible go of it, and the first thing Maedhros did after washing his hand and prosthetic was to ruffle the boy’s hair. “It’s getting so long,” he observed, and tugged one strand. “Does it often get in your way?”

“Not really. But I was thinking, might we visit the forge?” Ereinion’s voice was hopeful as he tagged along at Maedhros’s side, taking three quick steps for each one of Maedhros’s long strides.

“Of course we might. But why?” Maedhros unfastened the prosthetic while they were walking, removing it and tucking it into a pocket of his cloak. No matter how beautifully made or useful they could be, they always tended to pinch if he wore them too long.

“I thought perhaps I could have a set of golden ribbons, to match the ones Ada wears. But--“ Ereinion’s face screwed up as he considered. “I don’t want him to think I’m copying him, though. Would you ask? If he thinks it would be all right?”

Maedhros smiled, and squeezed Ereinion’s shoulder, steering him towards the pantry, then unrepentantly plucking a few seed-covered honeycakes from their wax paper wrapping on a high shelf. Being tall had many advantages. “I think the one you should ask is me.”

“You?” Ereinion’s eyes were wide, but primarily focused on the cakes.

“I gave your father those ribbons, long ago.”

“Long ago? When?”

With a gentle push with his stump, Maedhros steered them both up to the ramparts, and bit back a protest when Ereinion immediately swung both legs over the walls, dangling them hundreds of feet above the sheer drop below. He reminded himself sternly that Ereinion was _not_ a clumsy child, and would no more fall from the walls than he or his brothers had fallen from the roofs of Tirion or the enormous trees and cliffs they’d scampered up like a pack of feral squirrels. He’d thought himself worried about them then, the Ambarussa flitting from branch to branch, Celegorm insisting he watch as he would climb this time without using his feet, Caranthir and Curufin daring each other to leap over chasms like young deer. He’d often gone out in search of Maglor who had not come in for supper, and had only the sound of harp or lute to track him, finding him tucked into some watchtower’s alcove or the crutch of a tree branch, and how he’d climbed like that with the instrument, Maedhros had never figured out.

He pulled the cakes free of their wrapper, and handed one to Ereinion, who ate greedily. “So?” the child asked, as he picked at his own cake, pulling little morsels off bit by bit. “You gave Ada the ribbons?”

“I did.”

“Where?”

“In a place called Formenos, that was in Valinor.”

Ereinion’s eyes widened. “Before the Sun and the Moon?”

“Aye, long before.”

“Do you give him new ones often?”

Maedhros laughed. “No, he wears the same ones. The metal we used back then was...quite special. I shouldn’t be able to create the like again, especially after losing my hand.”

Ereinion nodded slowly, chewing his cake. “I think I should have liked to have seen Valinar, before the Darkening,” he mused, as if it were a particularly lovely valley in Beleriand rather than the Blessed Lands themselves, prepared for the Eldar Children as a gift. “And the Trees sound very pretty in all the songs.”

Maedhros looked out over the walls. The dread March fell away, all of his vision fixed upon the three monstrous, smoking towers of the Thangorodrim, just at the edge of what his sharper eye could see. “They were indescribably lovely,” he finally said. “Of such a kind that even seeing them day after day for years, one never grew weary of the sight. Our years were longer, then. Time was slower.”

“That, I cannot imagine,” Ereinion pronounced. “I think perhaps you were not paying attention closely enough.”

Maedhros laughed. “Perhaps that is the case, and not the Sun and the Moon as I had suspected.”

“What was it like between the Darkening and the Moon? Was it _very_ dark?”

The question took him off his guard, and beneath his fingers, the honey cake suddenly felt cold. No horror, he reminded himself. _It is not here._ “For me,” he said carefully, governing his emotions as strongly as he could. “Yes. It was very dark.”

“Could you see?”

“Well, yes. The Eldar are the people of the stars, after all. It was as a moonless night, spangled with Varda’s lights.” Maedhros paused, and remembered something. “It was difficult to see color in the same way. I remember, when the Sun first rose, everything seemed very red to me, and very green.”

“What did you see first?”

Maedhros inhaled slowly, and reflected that perhaps this was not the best place to be having such a conversation. But Ereinion didn’t know, of course. He had been careful to shield the child, as much as he could, from understanding too viscerally the terrors of his past.

But, he was asking. And he would soon be old enough to ride out to war, in just a few short decades.

Maedhros eased closer to Ereinion, left the cake on his lap, and pointed out at the Thangorodrim. “See the middle tower?”

“Easily, I can see far greater distances!”

“You have sharp eyes. Tell me, then. Can you see, about two thirds of the way up, a horizontal slice upon the mountain? There is an area more smooth than the others, and above it, a small gash, the size that could be made by a sharp elven blade. There should be a tiny bit of metal there, glinting in the sun.”

“I think so. I--yes, I see it!” Ereinion’s look of triumph faded suddenly, and his head whipped around to stare at Maedhros in dawning horror. “Oh. I--I didn’t mean to--I’m sorry, Lord Maedhros, I--“

Maedhros lay his hand on Ereinion’s hair, mussing it gently. “It was long, long ago.” That did not mean the horror had faded. The first day he had realized he could see the manacle from the walls of Himring had been...difficult. It had never truly eased. But with time, he came to cherish the sight, as stoking the fires of his vigilance ever-brighter. “You’ve heard the song, haven’t you?”

“Yes!” Ereinion declared, and sang.

“ _Bright the dawn on Mithrim's shores,_

_Did Prince Fingon depart,_

_To Arda came for valiant wars,_

_Yet song was in his heart.”_

Maedhros let him sing, closing his eyes as the memories came. They could hardly fail to do so. The song helped. It helped him recall listening to Maglor sing it, first in private for himself and Fingon in the Healer’s tent in Lake Mithrim, ensuring that nothing he wrote was inaccurate or offensive. Later memories were even kinder; often, just the opening chords of _The Fair Prince and the Fell Peak_ were enough to rouse some camps of the Noldor into a frenzy, calling for wine to drink toasts to the High Prince, their beloved commander, who had denied the Enemy a great prize and healed the strife of the Noldor with precisely one stroke.

“ _Atop the peak so fell and foul_

_In Morgoth's clutches writhed_

_In agony, with mortal howl--_ “

“On a day so fair?”

Maedhros turned, and was kissed. He heard a small indignant huff from Ereinion, whether at his father’s behavior or at his song being interrupted. “Of course on a day so fair,” he said, when he could breathe again. His hand came up to trace the gold-laced braid hanging into his face, and stole another swift kiss before pulling back. “On a foul day, I would not wish to think upon it.”

“Ada! I can see the manacle! Where you cut Lord Maedhros free, like in the song!”

“You have eyes as sharp as my blade,” Fingon told him, and Ereinion glowed with the praise. “Every time you see it, you must curse the Enemy. Come, let me hear you curse.”

Maedhros’s mouth twitched.

Ereinion’s eyes lit up. “Might I really?”

“In fact,” Fingon said seriously, “you _must_.”

Ereinion nodded, and turned back to face Angband, drawing in a great breath. “Morgoth Bauglir, Lord of Lies and Shadow! Thou art craven and foul! As long as I live, there will be no peace for you, nor your foul slaves!”

He paused, and looked up at his father, frowning. “I switched tones a bit, didn’t I?”

“You’ll get better with practice,” Maedhros assured him. “It’s an acquired skill.”

“I got sort of nervous,” Ereinion admitted.

“If you forget what to say,” Fingon suggested, “you can always simply say, ‘ _To the Void with you!”_ ”

“Aye! To the Void!”

“Enthusiasm counts for a great deal. We can practice more later.”

Ereinion glowed with the praise. “Thank you, Lord Maedhros.” He paused, then asked carefully, “Does it hurt? Your wrist?”

Maedhros could not help the way his eyes strayed, back to the smoking mountains. “Do you know, it never did? The hand does sometimes, though.”

“The...hand? Even though...”

“Mm. Aye, even though it’s long since dust.” And had been, fortunately, since he’d come to Himring and first laid eyes upon the fell manacle from this great distance. Whatever bones and flesh had been left behind had been long since taken or rotted, no trace of them remaining. “Just as sometimes, when you love someone who dies, you don’t feel the hurt until much later. And the greatest hurt is not the losing, but the loving of them, and the space they leave behind that nothing can fill.”

Ereinion’s eyes were wide. Fingon stepped close, resting his chin on Maedhros’s head, as if by doing so he could banish any dark thoughts. “I hope no one I love ever dies,” Ereinion muttered. “It sounds terribly uncomfortable.”

“It _does_ , doesn’t it?”

~

“You spoil him, you know.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Fingon carded his fingers through Maedhros’s hair, carefully reordering the strands, easing the snarls the winds of Himring wrought upon the copper tresses. “He won’t stop talking about the ribbons you had made. Blue and silver, very appropriate.”

“He’s a prince. Should he not have ornamentation? Should he not be proud of his father’s house?”

Fingon grinned, and began to braid. “I love hearing you call me that.”

“If Orodreth wanted a son, he shouldn’t have sent so good of one away. If we...” Maedhros’s hand suddenly tightened at the thought, as if he could banish it by squeezing. “I am speaking fey,” he admitted. “For we have, haven’t we? Against all odds.”

“Not that I should not like to have seven little black-and-red hellions about our feet,” Fingon assured him. “But perhaps during the Siege, we should confine ourselves to one. We can always steal more later. Make your brothers produce a few, it’s the least they can do.”

“I thought you _liked_ children, Finno, You would condemn them to being part of my house?”

“I’m just saying, we’d do a better job of raising Fëanorians than your father did.”

“Bold of you to assume they’re not like this _because_ I’m the one who had primary care of them.”

“But _I_ didn’t. And as I said, you spoil children.”

“There isn’t anything spoiled about Ereinion. He’s exactly as he should be.”

“He told me you had him skin his first deer, but you held his hand all through it.”

“Is there really not enough harshness in the world that we must invite it into his childhood?” Maedhros asked mildly, as Fingon tied off another braid. “It will be over too soon. Let him have soft memories while I’m at his side. I have little else to bestow.”

“You,” Fingon told him sternly, “have much to give, of teaching and of love.”

“And give it,” Maedhros replied calmly, “I shall.”

Fingon bent to kiss him, and Maedhros warmed to the touch, his hand coming up to brush against Fingon’s cheek. “I promised I’d teach him the double-ended spear thrust tomorrow. Want to come watch?”

Fingon made a face. “I promised I’d lead your archers in a drill. And frankly, you should come. Bring him.”

Maedhros frowned. “What’s wrong with my archers?”

“They’re...fine.”

“Finno.”

“They rely _very_ heavily on the fortress walls being as high as they are. Accuracy could use work.”

Maedhros opened his mouth in defense of his archers, then closed it. “I suppose the human troops have never had the benefit of your instruction,” he said, as generously as he could. “Perhaps afterwards, you can watch Ereinion practice.”

“He’s going to be the best warrior in all Beleriand by the time he’s of age.”

Maedhros smiled, and tugged Fingon into his lap. “Good. May he outlive us all.”

A shadow flickered over Fingon’s face. “You would wish that upon him?”

Maedhros’s own expression was fond, but there was sorrow there, too. “It is the best I could wish for him. I temper my prayers, so that none can be wholly turned to ash in my fingers.”

“Fey,” Fingon informed him, and took his fingers, and kissed them until he laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> So CAN elves see that far? LotR says yes. 
> 
> _"It seemed to Legolas, as he strained his farseeing eyes, that he caught a glint of white: far away perchance the sun twinkled on a pinnacle of the Tower of Guard. And further still, endlessly remote and yet a present threat, there was a tiny tongue of flame."_
> 
> According to my maps, Legolas is standing in Rohan and seeing Minas Tirith literally 300-350 miles away, and possibly even to Orodruin. Himring to the Thangorodrim is about 150, maybe 200. Additionally, in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Fingon fully expects to be able to see Maedhros's army in Lothlann from where he stands on the other side of the Anfauglith, despite it being about the same distance.


End file.
